


Of Dough and Ink

by usabuns



Series: ✧Request Box Fills✧ [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Flirting, First Meetings, Getting Together, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Pining Lance (Voltron), Prompt Fill, klance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-04 23:31:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12782007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usabuns/pseuds/usabuns
Summary: Lance notices how they’re both good with their hands.Anonymous said:baker lance with artist/tattoo artist keith (klance)





	Of Dough and Ink

**Author's Note:**

> i like to think i'm pretty bad at writing klance, but i did my best because this was a request. enjoy it, maybe! (hopefully)

Lance notices how they’re both good with their hands. 

Lance, who can make the fluffiest pastries and the softest bread loaves, and the hot guy who works at the tattoo parlor across the street, inking the most intricate designs across bare skin. 

He hasn’t exactly met the guy, and doesn’t even know his name, but he sees him walk into the little tattoo shop every morning at eight sharp, a worn bomber jacket loosely zipped over his upper body and tight skinny jeans clinging to his well-toned legs. 

His view of this mysterious tattoo artist is always the very best—Lance has this cute bakery right across the street, sharing the same strip-mall plaza with the tattoo place; there’s wide, tall windows at the front of his shop, and since Lance comes in around six to prep the dough, he gets the chance to see this guy every morning. 

He has rich, raven hair—though it’s styled pretty weirdly, Lance will admit—and dark brown Tims that match his jacket. The way he walks from his car, while scrolling through his smartphone, is an odd mix of ‘cool’ and ‘cocky.’ Even his dull, mauve eyes seem to radiate something like a lit fire burning in the night. 

Lance watches him park his grey, ‘09 Civic in the same spot every day, and every day Lance’s infatuation only grows. 

* * *

At the end of the morning, Lance is beginning preparing for the inevitable lunch rush that’ll come once noon hits. His shop is most crowded when the people from the office building down the street or workers from the other strip-mall shops come for desserts post-luncheon—and it’s not like Lance can really complain (because, well, he’s getting paid a good amount, considering), but sometimes having so many customers at once is stressful and, of course, puts a lot of pressure on him to do well. 

Right now, Lance is making the very last, fresh batches of desserts before the afternoon’s promise of a busy shop. He’s whistling to himself as he whisks clumps of flour and measuring cups full of various oil into a mix of chocolate, walnuts, and eggs. The mixture ends up smooth, but rather thick—so much so that it’s almost too dense to stir properly. 

It’s for brownies. A whole pan of ooey, gooey, chewy brownies that are something of a specialty of his. 

He adds in a few more ingredients, looking back through the kitchen door now and again in case someone happens to pop in while he’s baking. 

As it turns out, the small bell above the door chimes sweetly and Lance perks up, idly spilling the last of the batter into the square pan before yelling out a quick, “I’ll be there in a second!” 

He swats his hair out of the way, not breaking concentration even when the customer shouts something in reply. The pan clangs against the metal rack of the oven (for a moment, Lance embraced the heat raging forth from the open oven door), and he carefully slammed it back shut. A few clicks on the panel above the oven and the timer was set, so Lance wipes his dirty hands across the blue apron tied around his waist as he approaches the front of the store. 

Lance sees the tattoo artist guy standing at the counter, bent down to look at the confectionaries displayed behind the glass. 

His heart thumps once, then another time—but only twice, and he regains his composure soon after. He clears his throat. 

The guy looks up, the tiniest, barest resemblance of a smile forming on his lips. It’s almost not even a smile, really. He just looks mostly placid. 

“Uh— How can I help you?” 

“Well—” His eyes drift back down to look at the display case, scanning all of the options three times over. “—Can I have...two grasshopper cupcakes to go?” 

Lance cocks his brow slightly, because he certainly hadn’t been expecting that sort of answer. This guy looks like someone who would pick dark chocolate cake, maybe something with ganache. But his dark sense of fashion might just be messing with Lance’s perception of him. Yeah. That’s it. 

“Yeah, sure, I’ll get that right out for you.” 

And for a moment Lance maybe believes that this is it—that he’ll give this guys his cupcakes and he’ll leave, and that’ll be it. But Lance really can’t just leave it at that. 

As he goes to the glass display with a pair of tongs in one hand and a small, white paper box in the other, Lance puffs out a breath. “So, um— Can I get a name for that order?” 

Now, Lance hold his breath in, picking out the two cupcakes and placing them gently in the box. It’s such a stupid question, he thinks, there’s no way he’d answer something like that. 

It feels like a few years have passed when Lance finally stands up in full, sliding the box onto the counter and picking out a red sharpie as the guy fumbles through his wallet. 

“ _Keith_ ,” he says, and Lance is glad to have a name to go with that pretty mug of his. 

_Keith_. It suits him. 

“You look like a Keith,” spouts Lance suddenly, his grin a bit too devious. 

Keith is still fumbling with his bills, counting the exact change because the next smallest thing he has is a ten. He gives Lance an almost pointed look. “Uh— Thanks?” The confusion on his face turns into mild suspicion. “Then what are you?” 

Lance uncaps the marker, turning his eyes’ attention to scrawling a large ‘KEITH’ onto the to-go box. Now, his smirk is positively _devilish_. “I’m a Lance.” The corners of his mouth pull up even higher, as if he’s about to laugh. 

“Hmm,” Keith says, as if considering this. He unfurls his five dollar bill and straightens it, placing the quarter and two dimes on top of it and then sliding the money across the counter. “I don’t really think you look like a Lance,” he says bluntly, his tiny smile from before curving upward into a genuine grin. 

“Oh yeah?” Lance laughs just a little, and he swears he hears Keith chuckle warmly under his breath. Then again, it could just be wishful thinking. 

Lance almost continues the good-natured teasing (with maybe more of a blush on his cheeks than he’d like to admit), but as he’s counting the cash Keith starts unzipping his bomber jacket, revealing a very distracting v-neck underneath—one that’s a deep burgundy color, with a little pocket at the right side of his chest. 

The neckline itself reveals his collarbone and the lower part of his neck, and—there’s one large, beautifully complex tattoo going across the left side of his body. It’s made up of different images and symbols, and curls up to his neck and down to his chest and around to his back. There are so many colors, and for what seems like a long time Lance just stares. 

“Woah, dude.” Lance is still looking, wide-eyed with his cheeks flushing. 

“Oh—” Keith says, once he finally connects the dots. He brings his hand up to tug at the neck of the shirt, pulling it back to show even more colorful ink. There’s twining serpents in black and dark green; dull red roses with messes of tiny thorns; arrows piercing into hearts; a cracked skull, and other drawings that look just like patterns. “—I work at the tattoo place down the street.” 

“That’s— That’s way cool, man.” Lance locks eyes with him, and smiles again. Right then, the fear of judgement melts away from Keith’s features. He returns with a grin. “I’ve always wanted to get one,” he says fondly, letting eyes wander around the room to relieve the pressure. 

Then the cash register goes off. “Receipt?” Lance asks, even though it’s already printed. 

“Keep it,” says Keith, raising his hand and waving him off. He grabs the box from the countertop and zips his coat back up halfway. He turns around and Lance is about to do the same, but then he stops right at the door, tilting his head back slightly. “Lance—” Lance perks up, looking over his own shoulder. “—If you ever decide on getting one, come see me.” 

Lance hesitates for a beat, his heart bouncing. “I might just take you up on that offer, mullet.”

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr [@usabuns](http://usabuns.tumblr.com), twitter [@usabuns](https://mobile.twitter.com/usabuns)


End file.
